


Trust

by oninoshirosaki



Series: Love Is... [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oninoshirosaki/pseuds/oninoshirosaki





	Trust

The thing is, the thing is, it's all a lie.

Like the royal blue silk tie hanging loose around your neck, which he got you three years ago - still as resplendent as the one on display in a random window you both passed once, knotted around the collar of a suit so much like the many you own.

It's a lie like the pale green sweater in your closet - the one with the faded brown stain across the chest from when he spilled macchiato freddo on you - which, for reasons you don't like admitting, you can't find the heart to throw away. It wasn't even _his_ drink (he hates coffee with the same passion he hates losing a battle), it was meant to be _yours._

It's incalculable, meticulously spun webs of deceit, disguised like the autographed copy of _Chi no Hate made_ \- dogeared and yellowed - sitting amongst numerous other rare books you claimed to like, all procured from the same old bookstore in Japan. It's the miniature ceramic bulldog - the one from a silly little trinket store you were both forced to seek shelter in during an unexpectedly violent downpour - keeping your tomes company on the topmost shelf, or the little globe on your desk which bears no real function beyond that of a terribly trite paperweight. 

It's the ridiculously extravagant fountain pen between your fingers, inditing your signature furiously upon documents your eyes have glazed over from perusing, the equally exorbitant watch which hangs heavy like guilt upon your wrist, the crystal goblet from which you sip the finely aged wine he offered.

You detest all of them - _lies,_ all distasteful mendacity dragged nearly effortlessly ( _excruciatingly_ ) from your throat - the way you detest the sight of his pale mouth shaping around the question he unfailingly asks you around this time every year, the way you loath how easily (how _frequently_ ) Xanxus's name falls from his lips.

_"What do you want?"_

You often wonder how those lips taste, what they would feel like wrapped around your cock. _Touch me._

_"What do you want?"_

\--

The thing is, the thing is, you really despise having to lie to him.

You thoroughly abhor the manner in which you so often deceive him, resent how he never sees through your duplicity (does he not _know_ you?), hate how he never offers the _one_ thing you truly desire.

So _this_ year, you decide to go with the truth.

You're not quite sure why you're telling him _now._ Fuck, you're not quite sure why you're telling him at _all._ It just... _slips out,_ like the uncountable falsehoods you've paved before him over time, like a questionable trail of breadcrumbs. There's not a saint in this world whose patience rivals _yours._

You raise the goblet to your lips, take a sip (it really _is_ good wine), set it back down atop your expensive mahogany desk. You lean back in your armchair, fingers folding themselves neatly over the front of your suit - over _that_ tie (that _lie?_ ) - and make sure your gaze doesn't waver from his alluring silver-gray irises. " _You,_ Squalo. I want _you._ "

He very nearly falls off his chair laughing. His guffaw is gratingly raucous, his eyes are lit with unconstrained amusement. He obviously thinks you're joking, just like you knew he would. "What the fuck kind of cheesy ass answer is _that?!_ "

 _"Cheesy,"_ you reply matter-of-factly, still holding his gaze ( _don't you **dare** break now, you coward_ ), "doesn't make it any less true."

Confusion paints itself like red lightning across his angular face. It feels like a knife twisting - _slowly, cruelly_ \- in your gut.

And you don't know what it is. Maybe it's the alcohol coursing through your veins. Maybe it's the way he's running a wet finger along the rim of his glass - a habit he formed in junior high - producing the most godawful noises which, in no existing realm, could _possibly_ pass for _music._ Maybe it's years upon years of gnawing frustration, _mountains_ of fruitless attempts to make him _see._

Whatever it is has you out of your chair and rounding your desk, pulling him out of his seat and slamming him against the wall. And then it's your mouth against his - all rough lips and rough breath and _feelmefeelmefeelme._

Squalo doesn't kiss back. His fingers rapidly find the front of your white cotton shirt, palms flattening against your chest, shoving you off his person. " _Voooii!!!_ What the _fuck,_ Dino?!?" 

You've opened the floodgates. May as well fucking drown. "I love you." _Hear me._

He looks startled and wildly bewildered all at once. His eyes are like freshly sharpened scalpels carving themselves into your shuddering soul. His lips are bruised and moist, sanguine like the blood rushing to his cheeks in what you guess is embarrassment or anger. Maybe both. It makes you want to kiss him again.

He looks flustered, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fumbling for the right words. "I know - "

You shake your head, cutting him off. He still doesn't _get_ it. He never has. "No." You step closer, watch him nearly back into the wall like some cornered animal, like he doesn't _trust_ you. 

The knife penetrates _deeper._

Deep breath. Just _one._ It hurts like a motherfucker. "I love you... the way you love Xanxus."

You didn't think his eyes could get any wider. They _do._

And you Hate Hate _Hate_ the silence that follows. It's oppressive - bearing down upon you like the heavens on Atlas's shoulders, crushing you like the boulder of Sisyphus, smothering like this thick heat which should have no place in a winter so cold. 

So you break it with your lips parting his again, your tongue intruding into his mouth, your teeth clamping his lower lip. _Taste me._

He lets you kiss him until you've run out of breath, until you try to steal the air from his lungs to fill your own. His body goes entirely still under your touch, _yours_ burns with an agony you never believed could get any worse (it always _does_ ). 

So you pull away, noticing the way his eyes have gone soft at the corners. 

He looks worried. He looks like he _understands._ "I'm sorry." 

It makes you hate him, feels like a jagged rock to your fucking _face._ You don't need his fucking pity. 

"You know I don't - "

 _Don't say it._ Maybe you're not in control of your emotions anymore. Maybe you've gone insane. Maybe you don't _give_ a fuck.

Maybe isn't good enough.

Your right arm snaps forward, fist expertly finding his jaw - not hard enough to break it; enough to split his lip, to leave a bruise you know's gonna last for _days._ "Does _this_ make it better, _trash?_ "

_**See** me._

Squalo's head snaps sideways from the force of your blow, his hand reflexively goes up to hold his wounded face, his injured _pride. "Fuck!!!"_

You like the way his blood falls in thick drops down his chin, the way it comes off on his glove.

"What the fucking _fuck,_ Dino?!?"

"Is _that_ how he hits you?" Your blood's gone cold beneath your skin, _his_ has drained the color from his face. You know the question's caught him off guard, and these stolen seconds are all you need. In the space of a heartbeat, you've got him pinned against the wall, hands on either side of his head, fencing him in. "You can pretend I'm Xanxus." 

His breaths are coming out hard and fast, shoulders tensed like he's readying himself to bolt. You prepare yourself for the oncoming attack - he's unarmed, but no less dangerous. Take away a lion's claws and he still has his teeth. "That way," you intone (why the fuck does it sound so much like a fucking _plea?_ ), moving your face closer to his - close enough for him to spit at you, to bite you, headbutt you, "we both get what we want."

Squalo stares at you for the longest moment (who knew a moment could feel like a day, a year, a _century?_ ), the emotions warring on his visage indefinite enough to fill the vastest oceans, the deepest depths of Hell.

And then, he closes his eyes.


End file.
